


Party like it's 1344

by Bluethenstaub



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 14th Century, Historical, Historical References, Letters, M/M, Screenplay/Script Format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluethenstaub/pseuds/Bluethenstaub
Summary: It's the fourteenth century. Crowley's having a hell of a time.





	1. 1301

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring some slightly changes compared to the version published during the GOHE. Why did no one tell me that Bonifatius is called Boniface in English?
> 
> Also crap, after 6 months I realized that I gave the fic the wrong title. Obviously, it's "Party like it's 1344" and not "Party like it's 1433". Where was my brain?

My dear Crowley,

I have to admit, I don't like the pope. He only got into office after intrigues, and he's constantly challenging and fighting fair Philip. That's no behaviour for a proper pope!

Be a dear and don't mention anything written in this letter to anyone. I'm sure Gabriel wouldn't be too fond of hearing it. After all, as an angel, I should always be on the pope's side, even though I'm personally with the king this time.

In love,

Aziraphale

Angel,

I'm not sure how mentioning the matter is different from writing it down. If you're concerned that Gabriel is constantly spying on you, shouldn't he be reading your correspondence, too? Then why did you write me?

Yours,

The Adversary

My dear Snake,

You're funny. Concerned about my worries, and yet you signed the letter as ‘The Adversary.’ Or was this a bad joke of yours?

Do you know what exactly is happening between Philip and Boniface right now? Humans and their affairs are so confusing, but it seems important!

With kind regards,

The Angel of the Eastern Gate

Dear Former Cherub,

It's all about the money. The big shepherd needs it because he doesn't have any after the Crusades; the Iron King wants it because he's highly indebted, too. Wait until he goes after the Knights Templar and anyone else he owes money, I'm calling it. It's also a matter of power over the clergy. The usual. They're basically calling each other the bane of humanity and the root of all evil, without saying it directly.

I'm loving it. I just have to be in the same city as the pope and enjoy my life, and I earn points with Down Below who think that I'm behind all this. Influencing a pope gets even more points than usual. What more could I want?

Yours,

Tempter of Humanity

  


P.S. Is Gabriel even able to read? Maybe we should switch to a language he isn't able to speak. 

Low blow, Crowley.

Aziraphale

Dear Crowley,

I don't think Gabriel cares for my correspondence or else I would already have received a strongly worded letter from him, or a personal visit, especially after your last letter.

Did you read what exactly is written down in the bull?

Sincerely,

Aziraphale

Aziraphale,

The pope wrote, “Therefore, of the one and only Church there is one body and one head, not two heads like a monster.” I don't see his problem in having two heads. At least like this you always have someone for a good conversation or a good bickering. If we were to fuse and become a two-headed monster, would you rather be the right head or the left head? A dumb question, I know. As a former Cherub you have nothing against owning several heads, you rather encourage it. That reminds me: How many heads do you have as a former-Cherub-gone-Principality? And if it's only one, what happened to the other three? Are there three other Aziraphales running around in Heaven? Is that why Gabriel is always so annoyed with you? Because there's too many of you around him already, and he doesn't want to deal with the last one? And how will I ever know which Aziraphale I'm talking to?

I have to disagree with the bull. The pope should not be absolute ruler over the church. It's much more fun the way it is.

Yours,

Crowley

Dear friend,

Philip is excommunicated, while Boniface is facing accusations of heresy, simony, idolatry, magic, and the death of the pope before him, and probably some more things. Isn't sodomy always a common accusation? Nothing is wrong with sodomy, as long as both partners consent to it, I think. I should check Heaven's official stance on this matter...

I'm sure Boniface is at least guilty of leading to the events of the death of his predecessor. That poor man wasn't cut out to be pope, he should have stayed a hermit.

Such a man shouldn't be pope. I'm referring to both of them here, if this isn't clear.

On a personal note, I'm thinking about living the life of a hermit myself. It sure sounds exciting.

These times are exciting. Whatever happens now, it could all together change the history of Europe!

In love,

Aziraphale

  


P.S. My heads are none of your business. 

Dear Aziraphale,

Believe me when I tell you that you wouldn't like being a hermit. There are certain amenities you don't want to miss. We'll talk about this in person.

Some people have attacked the pope and I just want to say that it's not because of my influence! They did it on their own!

Crowley

Aziraphale,

The pope is dead! Long live the pope!

Crowley

My dear Crowley,

What is that supposed to mean?

We've got a new pope. I heard they demanded one not so hostile towards dear Philip. He's called Benedict XI, and his first order was to remove Philip’s excommunication. I dare to think that the secular powers have won this conflict.

In love,

Aziraphale

Aziraphale,

Just something that crossed my mind. It might sound better in French.

AC

Dear Crowley,

And once again we have need of a new pope! That was fast!

In love,

Aziraphale

My dearest Crowley!

It took them long enough, but the new pope is finally elected! Clement V doesn't want to get crowned in Rome! He's staying in Lyon!

With appreciation,

Aziraphale

A.,

The new pope fell off his horse and doesn't feel like getting up again. He won't move to Rome at all.

C. 

My dear Crowley,

I've heard he wants to stay in Poitiers for a while. He should stop being such a pansy. Riding a horse is not that hard, if you fall down, you have to get back up or you're never going to ride again. This is especially important if you're the pope. If one event's happening and you doubt in Him for a minute, do you lose all your beliefs? No. You get stronger and go on.

In love,

Aziraphale

Aziraphale,

Did I mention that he fell down because his horse saw a snake in the grass? That snake was me. The pope won't leave Poitiers because of me. Maybe you should come here, and teach him that not every horse is the same, while I should leave the city and do my bad deeds somewhere else.

I understand, though, that he doesn't want to get up again. You know what kind of monsters the horses I have to ride are. I'm certain the horses for humans are the descendants of the hell horses.

There are probably political reasons that he's staying in France and not in Italy.

Anthony

I called it about the Knights Templar, didn't I?

C. 

My dear Crowley,

I'm coming down to Avignon. I'd be pleased to meet you there.

Awaiting to see you,

Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1301? More like 1301 - 1307


	2. 1323

“It's hard to believe that they grew wine in England up until recently, and now it's so cold, isn't it?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grunted in reply. He hadn’t had any chance to taste the English wine, yet. Maybe later today with Aziraphale.

Today had been a bad idea. It was beyond him why he had agreed to Aziraphale's suggestion to go ice skating for their first in-person meeting this decade, since he hadn't been able to make it to their meeting in Avignon. Hell had officially ordered him to go somewhere else. It had been a shame; he had quite looked forward to seeing Aziraphale again.

But now this! Crowley wasn't even able to skate! He just clung to Aziraphale's cloak, hoping that the thick wool didn't mind him hanging there, getting dragged around.

He hoped that the ice under his feet[1] didn't decide that the weight of the two beings on it was too much and that they should both go for a bath.

Crowley enjoyed a good bath like the next demon, but a bath in the Baltic Sea in winter? He’d pass. Yes, he was able to walk on water if the ice suddenly vanished, but in the first moment he'd still get wet feet. He certainly didn't want that. The water was cold, so cold that most of it was frozen solid, solid enough that even more than two human-shaped beings were able to walk or skate on it.

“It's beautiful, the cold weather,” Aziraphale continued. “There's a silence to the world when everything is white, that's indescribable. Up There will never know what it misses.”

“Very beautiful,” Crowley repeated. His teeth started to chatter. He was a _snake_. He wasn't made for cold weather. He was made for long, warm days in Spain or Mesopotamia, ending with a good and heavy meal, not this.

“I've heard that wolves were able to walk down all the way down from Scandinavia to Eastern Europe,” Aziraphale said just as a third pair of pants and a fourth shirt appeared on Crowley. “As if the dears down there didn't have enough problems already.”

“I’m thinking about going south these days, too. Somewhere warm. Maybe somewhere in Africa. Egypt sounds nice, I haven’t been to Egypt in a while.” Not since the death of Cleopatra. Oh, sweet Cleopatra. She had been such a smart woman, had always been up for a nice talk, and yet, she had died like anyone else. Humans, right?

“That sounds lovely, my dear. Is anything important happening down there these days? I haven’t heard anything from them for a while.” Not since a certain library had fallen, as Crowley knew. Aziraphale had told him about it one drunken night around 900.

“I have no idea,” Crowley admitted. “I haven’t been in touch with them at all. But as long as the Nile doesn’t get all bloody again, it can’t be worse than here.[2] I’m freezing in places where I didn’t know it was possible to freeze.”

“Which places?”

“What?”

“Where are you freezing?”

That was a very personal question! “The soles of my feet, for example.”

“That’s you own fault, Crowley. You should just wear shoes like a human, instead of having that weird mix of shoes and your snake form. It’s always irritating when I look at them.”

“You think these are my feet?”

Aziraphale stopped skating immediately and turned towards Crowley. He looked embarrassed. “They aren’t?”

“No. You mean just because they’re scaled? I can’t help it, every pair of shoes I wear automatically gets scales.”

“That’s quite weird.”

“I know.” It was a curse, he was sure. Crowley had been able to reduce the scales on his body to a minimum, but as soon as he wore shoes, they automatically took over. It was his punishment for that business with the apple. Everyone should always be reminded that he was the serpent, bane and blessing of humanity. It was the same with his eyes. He just wasn't able to change them. He'd love to have a different eye colour, maybe grey, maybe a blue that stared deep into another’s eyes, but even more he'd love to have normal, round pupils. He didn't want to wear sunglasses all the time.

“It is that way and I can’t change it,” he continued, ready to drop this topic again. “Now, can we go on? I don’t like being in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re not in the middle of nowhere, you’re with me on the Baltic Sea,” Aziraphale said but continued their way over the ice. “You’re going to love the little pub I’ve picked out for later this evening. They’ve got quite nice fish dishes over there.” Aziraphale started to tell Crowley everything about the pub, whether he wanted to know or not.

Crowley didn’t mind. It was nice to stay quiet and listen to the angel’s voice while trying to ignore the cold, and fastening his grip on the cloak.

 

  
Aziraphale had ordered wine in the pub but immediately changed it into his favourite wine from England. It tasted lovely, really fresh. What would a person with knowledge of wine say? Fruity, maybe? Crowley had no idea.[3]

“It's good wine,” he said to Aziraphale. He greatly enjoyed being in the pub. He didn't have to wear seven layers of clothes anymore, nor the warm cloak Aziraphale had lent him on their little walk from the sea to the pub,[4] and thanks to a fiery hearth, he was able to feel his fingers again. Life was much more enjoyable when you could feel the dirt under your feet, or, in this case, the wood under your shoes. “It’s even better than the one I had with Dante, and that was the best I had in this century.”

“Oh, you've met Dante? Did you visit him to complain about his picture of Down There in his Commedia? It's a lovely book, I dare to say. And the fact that it's written in Italian, that's so outrageous!” The angel shivered in excitement.

“No, I actually visited him to talk about another piece he had written, _La Vita Nuova_. It happened like this:”

 

  
It was a dark and warm night in the summer of 1306 in Treviso, Italy. Crowley was dressed all in black, creeping through the night, not seen by anyone. He was on a mission. A mission to meet a man.

When he finally reached the palazzo, unseen by anyone but a small snake that he’d surprised by suddenly stepping out of a small side street, he knocked at the door.

It didn't take long for the door to open. It wasn't Dante himself, of course not, he was but a guest here, too, only a servant.

Crowley ordered him to take him to his master.

 

  
“Ordered?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, I told him, ‘I'm a guest of Dante's and that he's expecting me,’” Crowley answered.

“That's hardly anything I'd define as ‘ordering.’”

“Hush. Do you want me to continue or not?”

Aziraphale smiled into his cup and didn't say anything.

 

  
Dante was sitting in a chair together with his host, Gerardo da Camina, drinking some wine after they had eaten a great, but late dinner.

Both men stared at Crowley who gave them a little wave. “I'm here to meet you, Dante,” he said. “I'm a big fan. My name's Anthony Crowley, and I've come a long way to see you. It would be a pleasure if you'd welcome me as your guest.”

“It's not my decision to make,” Dante answered, voice deep and smooth like velvet on naked skin. “I'm only a guest myself.”

“I am aware, so I ask you, Gerardo da Camina, would you allow me, humble Anthony Crowley, to be your guest for the night?”

 

  
Aziraphale raised his brows. “‘Humble Anthony Crowley?’”

 

  
“You sound like a smart man, Anthony Crowley. You might stay the night. Sit down and enjoy the wine,” Gerardo said and gave a servant a signal to bring an additional cup for Crowley.

“You're too kind,” Crowley hummed as he sat down next to Dante. He gave both the author and their host a dashing smile. “I've known of your works for a while now. I was in Florence when they first got published. I happened to read them not too long after. Your words deeply moved me. I felt a sting in my heart I haven't felt in a while.”

“Now, as nice as this sounds, what's the truth, young man?” Dante asked. “ _La Vita Nuova_ got published eleven years ago. You would have been a small child at this time. I highly doubt that you were able to read it by then.”

“Maybe I was a smart child?” Crowley teased. “But no, in fact, I never was a child at all. I am, in fact, not even human. I'm immortal. A demon. I wander timeless around, meeting and greeting the brightest minds in the history of humanity. Aristotle. Confucius. Homer. Alexander the Great. Boudicca. Archimedes. Cicero. Ramses the Great. Sappho. Ying Zheng. Buddha. Even Jesus himself, and the parents of humanity, Eve and Adam, to name a few.”

If Dante wasn't impressed by now, Crowley didn't know how else to impress him. This speech always worked on smart people.

“Did you know Vergil?” Dante asked after a moment of consideration.

Crowley blinked. “Pardon?”

“Did you know Vergil?”

“Vergil? No, not in person. He’s was a friend of Aziraphale’s who told me quite a bit about him.”

 

  
“‘A friend of Aziraphale’s?’ What does that mean?” Aziraphale asked, angry spots appearing on his truly angelic face.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, I don’t!” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley didn’t bother to explain but Aziraphale always attracted a certain kind of people around him. It was obvious to anyone what he meant if they just used their brain for once.

 

  
“What’s an Aziraphale?” Gerardo asked.

“He’s...” Crowley hesitated. If Crowley was Dante, then Aziraphale was Beatrice, but he wouldn’t say this out loud. “He’s someone I’ve known for a long time. Since the beginning. An angel.”

“So angels are real?” Dante asked leaning over to Crowley in interest.

Wow. _That_ was what had piqued his interest? Not Cicero or Eve but that blessed angel?

“They are. In fact, angels and demons were once the same. We just had a disagreement over certain practices, after a while, and we left. I can tell you more about that, if you want to know more.”

“It's interesting, but tell me more about Vergil. I’ve happened to come to like him and his works quite a bit.”[5]

“Being a friend of Aziraphale didn’t help him, though. Vergil still ended up in Hell.”

“Why’s that?” Dante asked.

“Give me more wine, and I’ll explain everything.”

Without much ado, Crowley’s cup was filled again, and he started to talk about heaven, hell, and old men like Vergil. The more he talked, the more he drank.

He ended up in a bed, not knowing how he got there, with a really bad hangover. He wasn’t the only one with one that morning. But unlike the other two men, Crowley was able to miracle his hangover away.

 

  
“So, the _Commedia_ is not as much a piece of fiction as I thought,” Aziraphale said. He and Crowley had never discussed before how things were in Hell and how they differed from Heaven and how they were just the same.

“It kind of is. Dante has a wonderful imagination. I told him quite a bit, but he took it further and expanded it. I certainly didn’t tell him that everyone who’s not a Christian ends up with us. That would be a great loss for you guys. That would make me almost question Him. Why make so many humans when you don’t even accept most of them for something they have no influence over?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, you already questioned Him, that’s why you’ve fallen.”

“That’s not exactly why I’ve fallen, and you know that. But it makes me question everything even more.”

“It’s ineffable.”

“It’s bullshit.”

Aziraphale gasped. “It’s not! It’s His plan!”

“That isn't even what we're talking about, right now,” Crowley said wagging his pointer finger right under Aziraphale's nose. “I just said that not every heathen is Down Below.”

Aziraphale's eyes slowly followed Crowley's finger like a cat ready to catch its prey. “Isn't ‘Down Below’ what Australia is being called?” The angel was starting to get affected by the alcohol.

“Australia isn't being called anything, the people here haven’t discovered it, yet.”

“It's Down _Under_ ,” Aziraphale answered himself. “I don't like Australia. I almost hate it, but hate is such a strong word. Too hot, too many spiders, too many snakes, and don't even get me started on the birds! And the seasons are all turned around! That's so confusing!”

_Since when did Aziraphale have anything against snakes?_ Crowley thought. “ _You're_ confusing,” he said loud.

“No, my dear,” the angel mused and snatched Crowley's finger which was still wandering around in front of Aziraphale's face, “not even you would like it there, it's not fancy enough for you. And the people, well, they're something else. Their own kind. That's what happens when you're living on your own continent. Just look at the people of America. Some are worshipping winged snakes!”

“What's with you and snakes right now?” Crowley asked quietly, eyes fixed on their hands. Aziraphale had moved them down to the table where Aziraphale was pressing Crowley's hand onto the wood plate with gentle force while stroking the palm of Crowley’s hand softly with his thumb.

“Nothing's with me and snakes, I like them just the right amount.”

_Only the right amount_ , Crowley thought and felt his stomach clench.

“You're a lovely snake, dear boy, but you remember the time when they started to worship goddesses in the form of snakes. It was in Babylon, I think. Cuneiform had just been developed. It was around 4500 years ago, I guess.”

Oh, how he remembered. He had tried to use this for his own, and tried to influence the humans again as a snake, only to get discorporated quite soon after. It had taken years for his superiors to stop laughing every time they saw him because he had gotten beheaded by a shovel.

“So we agree that snake idols are no good,” Aziraphale decided for them both and ordered a second jug of wine. He had refilled the first one during the story, but they had to keep their cover in public.

“Apparently we agree, yes,” Crowley confirmed after the waiter had left their table again.

“Be a dear and tell me, what exactly are the differences between what Hell is like and what Dante wrote down, will you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure. If you're interested.”

“I certainly am.”

So Crowley started to tell him, once again getting more and more drunk in the process of this hellish description.

 

 

* * *

 

 

1 Properly equipped with a pair of skates! [return to text]

2 He’d leave Egypt again in late 1324 to settle down in Milan for a while, after Mansa Musa had visited Egypt on his way to Mecca. There, Mansa Musa had inflated the whole country with tons of gold which he used to buy more useless souvenirs than a twenty-first century European tourist in a cheap market during their first visit in Istanbul. Crowley received his recommendation for this just as he was debating whether or not he should buy some dates. He didn’t. He always lost his appetite when he heard the voice of Mammon. [return to text]

3 And neither had the author. [return to text]

4 Which was a shame, really. He had liked wearing it, the fur collar was so fluffy and smelled just like Aziraphale. [return to text]

5 Crowley would instead tell that story years later to another author who'd, just like Dante, take Crowley's words, twist them, remove the best parts and change them to suit his own ideas, write them down, and get the whole thing published. Crowley didn't mind though, he actually felt quite flattered. [return to text]


	3. 1345

At least once every century, Crowley wanted to visit _his_ English and Scottish towns to see how they had developed in the recent years. He knew there was war between France and England, which was why he didn't take a ship in French territory. This was why he had taken a ship in Bruges.

This, and the fact that this was the only way to get to England nowadays, since all other nearby haven cities were under French rule.

He had taken so much care to board the perfect ship, one that would bring him as fast as possible to London.

He didn't care when he spotted the black ship with the blood red sails nearby.

And yet, for some reason unexplained to Crowley, the ship which was revealed to be a pirate vessel, and had taken them prisoners and messed it all up. Crowley liked being alive. He surrendered peacefully.

Currently, Crowley was sitting in chains under deck in the dark and rolling his eyes about the cries of the person nearest to him - a man like a bear, equally tall and equally hairy and grim. And yet, he was crying for help and mercy like a sinner in hell. It was annoying.

The man wasn't from his ship, though. There were many men here, and some women, from many different ships. The pirates probably took only one or two people from every ship as prisoner. The others, well. They probably had long and meaningful conversations with Crowley's colleagues of the reception Downstairs by now. Bureaucracy, right?

Crowley had enough. He was sure he'd been in the dark for over half a day now. Not that he cared about that, he could see perfectly fine in the dark, after all, and he didn't get hungry, but the company was so annoying, and unwashed.

He could hear some of the men mumble about a Pirate Queen. He could hear some of the men mumble about a She-Devil, a demon straight from hell. He could hear them mumble the words “The Lioness of Brittany.”

He miracled himself free of the chains and left the room they had taken him to, stepping onto the deck into the fresh air.

Crowley took a deep breath. Ah, the fresh air of the sea. So unlike the stagnant air under deck, smelling like stressed human bodies who hadn't felt water in days or even weeks.

Out here, the world was clean and you could feel as free as the seagulls above you. It would be easy for Crowley to spread his wings and join then, finishing his journey on his own without the help of humans.

But he enjoyed being on a ship, even if there was the annoying smell of unwashed humans.

But who cared about all that when you could be a pirate? He imagined it, owning his own ship, with a crew of his own, sailing on the seas, not caring for anyone or anything. That sounded like a good life. Maybe he should think about a career change.

Freeing chickens from their pens? Goodbye! Commanding a ship in order to steal every piece of human belongings? Hello!

Someone grabbed Crowley by the collar and pulled him over.

“Who are you, lad?” A middle-aged woman[6] asked. For a second, Crowley thought she was War, beautiful and deadly.

She wasn't War, she was a simple human woman. The sun had reflected off her auburn hair, making it shine like blood on a battlefield.

Her grip hardened while her other hand wandered down towards an axe hanging from her belt.

“My name's Anthony Crowley,” he answered quickly.

“Never heard of you, Anthony Crowley. You're one of the people from the _Hope_. How has it come to be that you're not in chains and below deck with the rest of your lot?”

“That's a fair question, dear lady. I happen to have quick fingers, no lock is safe from me, no chest untouched, no door closed, if I want it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don't believe you. Yet you're here and not below deck. Where are you from, Anthony Quickfinger?”

This needed a delicate answer, Crowley knew. If he didn't tell her what she wanted to hear, she would most likely throw him overboard, if not worse. He tried the truth. “Why, it's not important where I'm from, my lady. I lost my home a long time ago. Currently, I'm heading over from Bruges to London, and Manchester, to visit Glasgow in the territory of the Scotsmen.”

“You look French.”

That was a threat.

“I can assure you that I'm not French. I spent some time there, but in recent years, I came to disagree with them more and more,” he answered quickly. “Just like you, it seems.”

The women let go of his collar.

“Come with me to my cabin,” she said, turning around.

To Crowley's surprise there were several children in the cabin. Three to be exact. Still too many children for Crowley's liking.

The woman sat down in a chair by the table, pulling the little girl onto her lap.

“I'm Jeanne de Clisson,” she finally introduced herself. “These are my children, Olivier, Guillaume, and Jeanne. After Philip of France killed my husband, we started to support the English crown.”

“Was your husband a pirate, too?”

“Oh no.” She smiled. “That's only me.”

“You do a fabulous job, my lady, if I might say so. The ‘Lioness of Britain,’ if I remember correctly?” It was a good thing that Crowley had listened to the cries of his fellow prisoners.

“That's what some people call me,” Jeanne said proudly.

“My mom's the strongest and everyone fears her,” little Jeanne said.

“She is,” Crowley confirmed. “The most fierceful pirate between here and there.”

Little Jeanne beamed.

“I have my standards,” Jeanne said.

“Like attacking peaceful merchants?”

“I only attack French ships.”

“So why did you attack the _Hope_? She's only going from Bruges to London, and never anywhere else.” He hoped it was that way. Of course, he hadn't checked that beforehand. He had just booked passage for the next best ship going straight to London, not caring about anything else.

“This, I have to admit painfully, was an honest mistake we didn't discover until later.”

“Then where did the crew go? Why am I the only person alive?”

“I only found out the truth about right now.”

“Oh.”

So she had lied. She would attack every ship, not caring about good or bad.

“You didn't sail under the English flag.”

“Of course not. It's a Flemish ship, as I've said.”

“You never know with people where their loyalty lies. You have to attack them before they attack you. You have to build up a reputation. That's why there are always survivors on the ships I attack. To tell the tale. To make Philip tremble in fear.”

“Believe me, my lady, if I want to, I'm quite good at finding out where people stand and what they desire.”

“Prove it. Show me that you're as good with your words as with your fingers.”

Crowley wasn't the tempter of humanity by chance. Of course he knew what people wanted. So he told her.

“You want your husband, who was falsely accused by the King of France of being a spy, back. You want revenge for his death.”

Jeanne rolled her eyes. “That is common knowledge. My flagship is even called _My Revenge._ ”

“Of course.” Crowley hadn't known that before. “You want your husband back, but you don't want to go back to your old life. You know that your children are old enough to send them away, to get the proper education they deserve as sons of a noble, but you fear parting with them, fear losing them. Which I understand, they are lovely children.”

They weren't. They were as snooty little brats as they come.

“Olivier here wants nothing more than to become a pirate like his mother, and like Red Robert, your first mate,” Crowley continued. “He wants to follow in your steps to punish those who deserve it, those who make his mother cry at night, when she thinks her children are asleep and don't hear. His mother, who isn't sure if she will ever be able to go back to the peaceful life of a noble woman. Who would want to take care of some boring lands when they currently have three ships under their name? Do you want me to continue?”

“No,” Jeanne said, voice softer and quieter than before. “You really are good with people, Anthony Crowley.”

Good? He was made for this. He was the best.

Absentmindedly, Jeanne stroked her daughter’s hair, watching her sons.

“I have business in London,” she answered after a moment of consideration. “I can take you there.”

“That would be lovely, dear lady.”

“Let's go on deck. I'll introduce you to our cook. You must be hungry.”

Ah. Yes, food. “Of course I am. I haven't eaten since you wrecked my ship.”

Jeanne put her daughter on the floor again. “You can come too, children. Don't play in here all day.”

“Yes, mother,” Olivier said and left the room with his brother, glancing at Crowley when he thought he wouldn't notice.

Little Jeanne ran after her brothers.

“And while you're eating you're going to tell me how you did all of that.”

“All of what?”

“First you get out of chains of solid steel, now you know things you should have no knowledge of.”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “I'll teach you all my tricks if you teach me yours.”

Together they left the Captain's quarters.

That's when the first cannonball hit the ship.

Jeanne shouted for her children to come back to her, and to stay by Crowley's side. Crowley, whom she’d known for only a few minutes, but who already knew things about her she didn't want to accept herself.

Crowley didn't want to play babysitter.

He did it anyways, not able to help in any other way.

People were running around, Jeanne was shouting orders, her children stayed by Crowley's side, even Olivier who tried to argue that he should go and fight too, waving around with his little sword. Little Jeanne cried, burying her face in Crowley's clothes.

He hated children, especially crying ones. With soft words, he tried to sooth her, tried to talk her down.

It almost worked until the mast fell. Jeanne, the mother, came running towards them, shouting more orders at her men.

It didn't help.

The enemies were too strong with their four ships surrounding them. They were clearly outnumbered. Not even Crowley was able to help with a miracle.

Before Crowley realized it, the ship started to sink, with Jeanne throwing her children and herself into the only lifeboat.

There was no space for Crowley, but that was fine. He'd survive, it was just water. This certainly wasn't the first (nor the last) shipwreck he’d endure.

And with a little help from Crowley, no person who had been on that ship died that day.

He didn't owe them this, but it felt like the right thing. There were already enough people dying in this war. These pirates should survive another day.

After the French ships had sailed away, Crowley clung to a piece of wood, all alone as it seemed. It looked like his pirate life was already over. He sighed deeply. Fiiine. He'd go to England on his own! Luckily the English Channel wasn't that broad.[7]

 

 

* * *

 

 

6 Middle-aged by modern standards, not the standards of 1345.[return to text]

7 He'd later hear that Jeanne and her children had survived the attack, too. She'd recovered and continued to live as a pirate for some more years, bringing fear upon the French, until she eventually retired and remarried, finally living a peaceful life again.[return to text]


	4. 1352

Crowley went almost as pale as the man who had just knocked at the door that evening. It was _him_. Crowley had hoped to avoid him here, in a little village in the middle of nowhere. No one came here of their own free will, so why him? How?

“‘Sup,” the pale man greeted Crowley with a smile. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. What are you doing here, Pestilence?”

“Just passing through. No worries. Or maybe not. Maybe you should worry. I told you, we’d meet again. Do you remember the last time?”

Of course, he remembered the last time. He remembered all the times in the last five years.

 

 

The first time had been in Paris, May 1348. Crowley had heard rumours about the deaths of the Europeans. The plague took everyone, man, woman, child. It didn’t stop for the rich, it ravished the poor, it even took the clerics. And then (Crowley couldn’t quite believe it), there was Pestilence, in the same little tavern as him, casually stealing from Crowley’s meal as if he was Aziraphale!

 

 

The second time had been one year later, in a town with a name Crowley wasn’t able to remember. Pestilence greeted him again like an old friend, with kisses on both cheeks. The fact that Crowley’s skin on his cheeks started to detach afterwards wasn’t as bad as the feeling of hunger when Famine came around the corner. But even this wasn’t so bad compared to the feeling of complete hopelessness when he saw the long red hair of War. They were here, all three of them, and the fourth one never far away.

Crowley wasn’t able to get out of spending the evening with them. They loved to hear compliments about how they made Crowley’s life as a demon so much easier, how easy people were to tempt in this age when they were all together.[8]

 

 

The third time was in 1450, at the borders to the kingdom of King Casimir. They both had not been allowed to enter, Pestilence because he was visibly infected with the plague, Crowley because he wasn’t able to prove that he was _not_ infected and should go to quarantine. Pestilence didn’t mind. He’d come back later, he had told Crowley before he turned over his equally sick looking horse and vanished back into the the forest.

 

 

Crowley couldn’t bear to live in a region affected by the plague. It wasn’t so much the people’s deaths, people died every day for over five thousand years now, and Crowley had already almost stopped blaming himself. If you were able to see the right and wrong in the world, death was a small and worthy price to pay.

No, it was the people’s feelings. He hated feeling the numbness and panic of the people in cities affected by the Black Death. Who was going to be infected next? Was it you? Was it your lover? Was it your neighbour?

With the biggest headache in the history of headaches,[9] Crowley surrendered to his fate. He tried to find a way not to be drunk all around the clock and to survive the century. He sent a short message to Aziraphale  saying that they wouldn’t be able to get in contact with each other until the plague died out, then fled to the countryside.

The angel would certainly have his hands full enough doing whatever angels do. A few years apart meant nothing.

 

 

He found himself in a small village, far away from other towns, with not a single person affected by the Black Death. Life was okay there. He helped an old woman in her house after her only remaining son had left her for a better life in the city many years ago. He was probably dead by now. Gladly, she accepted Crowley’s help, thinking he was her grandchild.

Crowley justified himself, his life in this small village which didn’t even had a market, by saying that he was focusing on corrupting the souls of the handful of people in order to find new and more effective ways to do so for the future.

This was something every proper demon should do every thousand or so years: ~~live a peaceful life as a peasant~~   hone your craft.

Yes, there was always that dull, steady feeling of desperation, fear and uneasiness, especially when travelers came through the village, but it was bearable. At times, Crowley even forgot it was there all together.

Crowley was even able to sleep again, and, more importantly, to be sober.

 

 

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, trying to shield his house and his, in a way, adopted grandmother from Pestilence. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

For the first time in ages, the old panic came back. These people, _his_ people, were all going to die! They were not supposed to die! Not now, it wasn’t their time yet.

“Who is it, dear?” Edith shouted from the back of the house. “Is it Thomas?”

“No, it’s not Thomas. It’s a stranger. A wanderer,” Crowley answered over his shoulder. _“A person who’s not supposed to be here!”_ he hissed in Pestilence’s direction.

“You hurt me, Crowley,” the white man answered.

“Why don’t you ask him to come in? It’s already dark and supper’s ready. He can share a meal with us.”

“Yes, why don’t you ask me to come in?” Pestilence asked with a smile.

“Why don’t you leave immediately?” Crowley answered.

“Now, that’s rude.”

“It’s preventative. You’re Pestilence, after all.”

“And you’re a smart boy,” the horseman answered and pushed himself past Crowley into the house. “It’s a pleasure, sweet lady,” he said to Edith. “I’m a simple wanderer and in these hard times it’s always nice to get a warm meal.”

“Stop sweet-talking her,” Crowley said and closed the door. “There isn’t any warm food for you here. We’ve got some bread and cheese for you. No meat, and nothing else either!” He didn’t want to share. Pestilence could never appreciate it. Pestilence didn’t deserve the food. He only made Crowley’s life miserable, so why should he get the pleasure of being allowed to eat?

“Anthony, don’t be mean,” Edith said as she put an additional plate on the table. “We love to share.”

“No, actually, we don’t.”

“You’re too kind, dear woman,” Pestilence answered and bowed slightly. “It is appreciated. Your gesture will not be forgotten, not in this world nor in the next.”

Edith actually gave him some of the meat that was meant to be for her. Meat! Meat was rare and they didn’t eat it often! But Edith was the sweetest woman - as always. After all she had taken in a demon, too, just because he had told her that he was her grandchild, and without needing further proof. Without any hesitation, she gave Pestilence water to wash himself, and blankets for the night.

Pestilence gave Crowley a smug smile, and started to entertain them with stories of his travels. Crowley didn’t know how many of them were true, how many of them happened once in a fever dream, and how many of them were just a figment of his imagination. He didn’t care.

All he cared about was that Pestilence didn’t get too close to Edith, in hope that his white and deathly grip wouldn’t take hold of her.

He didn’t dare to sleep this night.

Pestilence left in silence in the morning, shortly after sunset.

Two days later, when Crowley and Edith were tending the vegetables in the garden behind the house, she started to cough.

Crowley was sure his heart stopped beating for a whole minute in his shock.

She wasn’t the only one in the village to start coughing after Pestilence’s visit. Almost everyone  did.

Crowley started to panic and almost took up drinking again.

The plague had finally found him!

It hadn’t.

Just as Pestilence had told him, he hadn’t forgotten Edith’s kindness. It was just a regular cold in this cold and wet autumn.

Crowley, and his village, were still safe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

8 He didn’t tell them that the only tempting he had been doing these days had been to convince himself not to flee to an unpopulated island far away from Europe. His superiors would not appreciate it.[return to text]

9 Even bigger than the one of Candice Dixon from Santa Barbara, California, on the 28th of November 1978, whom had, in fact, the biggest headache of any mortal being ever.[return to text]


	5. 1381

Aziraphale, an angel in human shape; wearing the clothing of an English noble, slightly old and out of style.

Crowley, a demon in human shape; wearing the clothing of an English noble, very new and much in style.

Several animals, in cages.

 

London, the Tower, Royal Menagerie.

 

 

( _There are loud noises outside, people are shouting. The noises are muffled, though, it isn’t possible to understand what’s going on._ )

 **Crowley** : What’s all that noise outside?  
**Aziraphale** : Oh, I think some people are mad about something. I think it’s taxes.

 **Crowley** : So like the Jacquerie from France?

 **Aziraphale** : I don’t know. I’ve never heard about this before. What was that?

 **Crowley** : Some revolt in France. I coincidentally passed it when I decided to go to France for a while after the Plague. I think it was in ‘58? It was- ( _he takes a deep breath_ ) very exciting. I felt very much alive.

 **Crowley** : ( _to himself_ ) I felt so alive, I had to keep every cell in my body staying alive, instead of spontaneously discorporating. I barely managed. The anger, the hatred, the desperation of the people, a demon like me can only feel so much.

 **Aziraphale** : I understand, my dear.

 

 

( _They continue to walk in silence. They’re currently passing first a female lion with some cubs, then a male lion. The animals start to get nervous when the two beings get close, and then calm as they pass._

 _Or maybe it’s just Crowley’s presence. He stays for a moment to watch the lion cubs while Aziraphale continues on to the male lion, who stays calm._ )

 **Aziraphale** : ( _when Crowley returns to his side_ ) Lovely animals. They remind me of Jerome and his lion. Do you remember?

 **Crowley** : ( _you can see that he doesn’t think the lions are lovely. He makes them nervous just as much as they make him nervous. Yet, he knows that he’s perfectly safe with Aziraphale by his side._ ) No, I’ve never met him. I was in Moscow during that time.

 **Aziraphale** : He was a lovely fellow.

 **Crowley** : Jerome or the lion?

 **Aziraphale** : Why, the lion, of course. Jerome was such a prick. He even cursed me when I dared to disagree with him. ( _he smiles fondly at that memory_ ) I was right, of course. Moses _never_ had any horns! He's not one of your lot!

 **Crowley** : ( _he looks offended, he tried having horns once and he decided that they don’t suit him._ ) Actually, if he ever came down to us, he'd receive quite a good position. He got a gold star for the things that went down in Egypt back in the day.

 **Crowley** : ( _to himself_ ) Which would have been worse for me than this century if I’d been in Egypt during that time. Instead I took a liking to China, and especially one little shop with the most delightful food, which is, unfortunately, already long gone.

 **Aziraphale** : ( _annoyed_ ) He didn't do anything in Egypt. It was pharaoh's fault!

 **Crowley** : Actually, it was His fault. If He wanted to, He could have found a way to free them without killing half of Egypt.

 **Aziraphale** : ( _not listening to Crowley_ ) And what does that even mean? A gold star? Why do you give out gold stars?

 **Crowley** : Oh, that's a game we came up with ages ago. For every major catastrophe caused by your lot, the person who did it gets a gold star. If they get ten, someone's going to deliver a message to ask them to fall. Even Gabriel got a star. He shares it with Michael for destroying Sodom and Gomorrah.

 **Aziraphale** : Ha! Serves Gabriel right!

 **Crowley** : I just hope that is the only one he ever gets. I don't want him to be my boss, too.

 **Aziraphale** : No one wants Gabriel as a boss.

 **Crowley** : Agreed.

 

 

( _They walk in silence for a while. Crowley opens the cage of a lion, but as soon as Crowley isn’t looking, Aziraphale closes it again._ )

 **Aziraphale** : Have I have gotten any stars, yet?  
**Crowley** : No. But if it calms you, He got three.

 **Aziraphale** : Oh.

 **Crowley** : ( _pointing at a cage_ ) What’s this?

 **Aziraphale** : Some kind of monkey.

 **Crowley** : I know that it’s some kind of monkey! What kind of monkey?

 **Aziraphale** : How should I know? I’m here for the first time, same as you! I didn’t have any reason to visit the King’s animals before. Why should I? I’m not part of his court! I’m seeing this kind of monkey for the first time. It’s not a vervet, that much I can tell you!

 **Crowley** : No need to get angry.

 **Aziraphale** : ( _cold_ ) How long are you going to stay in London?

 **Crowley** : ( _hesitating, he doesn’t like it when Aziraphale sounds that cold towards him_ ) I don’t know. It depends on what’s going on outside. If it’s too bad, I’m going. There’s no need for a demon in a town with riots.

 **Aziraphale** : That might be true.

 **Crowley** : Are the riots caused by your side?

 **Aziraphale** : I have to admit I don’t know. If I recall it correctly, they want less taxes. That sounds more like something of yours.

 **Crowley** : It does? My folks are all for high taxes. They cause the people to commit more atrocities.

 **Aziraphale** : Odd. Mine are currently on the side of high taxes, too.

 

 

( _They walk for a while without exchanging words. After a moment, Aziraphale notices that Crowley isn’t by his side anymore._ )

 **Aziraphale** : My dear?

 **Crowley** : ( _he comes strolling around a corner_ ) I’m here.  
**Aziraphale** : ( _he hesitates, realizing some things_ ) Aren't we supposed to rhyme?  
**Crowley** : I know that rhymes are more than in their prime,  
            But we are too dumb,  
            And those rhymes would be really plumb.  
            So let's leave the rhymes for the pros,  
            Because if we do it, it only blows.

 **Aziraphale** : I’m not dumb and neither are you!

Maybe we should try it in another language, too.

 **Crowley** : Wellen wir diutsch sprechen?

 **Aziraphale** : ( _unable to find a rhyme_ ) Nein, mîn tiurlich junge.

 **Crowley** : ( _smiling_ ) Good. Let’s continue to talk in English and without rhymes.

 **Aziraphale** : Agreed.

 

 

( _Once again they walk in silence. Crowley thinks about the conversation they had a few moments ago. Eventually, he has an idea, much to his surprise. Normally, he has to think a few years to come up with a good argument. Aziraphale is thinking about where to take Crowley out for dinner._ )

 **Crowley** : Maybe the people are only to blame for what’s happening on the outside.

 **Aziraphale** : Don’t be ridiculous, my dear. Humans aren’t able to get those kind of ideas.

 **Crowley** : Why not?

 **Aziraphale** : That’s ineffable.

 **Crowley** : They have free will. They’re able to see between good and bad. Why should they not be able to get an idea for a riot all on their own?

 **Aziraphale** : They’re only peasants!

 **Crowley** : So what? Peasants are humans, too. You know that.

 **Aziraphale** : ( _it’s obvious that he doesn’t like the topic_ ) We’ve already discussed this enough. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

 

( _They reach the end of the menagerie. For a few moments they discuss what to do next, Aziraphale invites Crowley to dinner in a nearby pub. They leave.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellen wir diutsch sprechen? - Do we want to speak [Middle High] German?  
> Nein, mîn tiurlich junge. - No, my dear boy.


	6. 1399

Aziraphale was late. He had promised in his last letter that he would show up a few days ago, but he was still not here.

Crowley was annoyed. Crowley was so annoyed by the angel’s behaviour that he took his friend Jan out for a drink until the angel arrived, hopefully still today. He didn’t want to spend the night alone. He didn’t even want to sleep tonight.

It was New Year’s Eve. Aziraphale and Crowley had decided to celebrate it together. Theoretically, it was already next year, or sometimes not even close to it, it all depended on your current region. But after a short discussion, they had decided to ignored all other New Years out there. They’d go with the Julian calendar: January 1 was the first day of a year.

Crowley had looked forward to it. This century had been… much. It had almost been too much, Crowley had to admit. But only almost.

Celebrating the beginning of a new century together was a small tradition they had started with their Arrangement. They would just sit together and drink some wine, nothing special at all. And yet, to Crowley it felt special.

The Arrangement. Wow. They’d already had their Arrangement for almost 400 years and it still worked perfectly, even though they should be archnemeses.

They could be so much more…

If only Aziraphale would arrive!

Crowley ordered more wine. If he didn’t take care, then he’d be totally hammered when Aziraphale arrived. If he arrived.

 _Maybe he forgot,_ Crowley thought. _Maybe something happened, and he didn’t have time to tell me. Maybe he told me but I didn’t get the letter. Maybe I messed up the date and it’s tomorrow._ Crowley could already see himself all alone in the pub. Jan would get bored after a while and leave to go home. Crowley would stay and no one would seek his company on their own. Crowley would get more and more drunk and-

No. Everything would work out fine. This was Aziraphale. Maybe he had gotten lost, maybe he had seen some nice books and was looking at the illuminations. It would all work out.

“Anthony, I’m talking to you!”

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked you if- oh, forget it. When did you say your friend wanted to be here?”

“An hour ago! Or three days ago!”

“He's not very punctual.”

“He has no sense of time,” Crowley agreed.

His mind wandered away from Aziraphale and he engaged in a conversation with Jan.

Crowley could feel Aziraphale before he saw him.

If you’re a demon and you know what to watch out for, you can feel an angel’s approach. Crowley knew what to watch out for and after being apart from Aziraphale for almost two decades, he felt it quite intensely. It felt like the first sun after a long and brutal thunderstorm.

Crowley was able to smell Aziraphale before he heard him.

He smelled like freshly baked bread. He smelled like a flower patch in spring. He smelled like dust and a room full of books.

“Crowley,” he said, sitting down beside the demon, reaching for his cup of wine and taking a sip as if he owned it.

For a second, Crowley beamed up at him. He only hoped that Aziraphale was too deep in the cup to notice it.

Jan had noticed it, though. He raised a brow but Crowley only shook his head as if to tell him that this was nothing to worry about.

“It’s good to see you. Don’t you want to introduce me to your company?” Aziraphale asked and smiled after he had put down Crowley’s cup.

“Sure. This is my friend Jan, from the town of Husinec in South Bohemia. He’s studying theology here in Prague at the university. Jan, this is an old friend of mine from England. His name’s Aziraphale.”

“From England?” Jan leaned over the table, a certain sparkle in his eyes. Crowley knew it. Jan always got that look during certain religious discussions. “Do you know of the writings of John Wycliffe?”

“Why, yes, dear boy, of course I do,” Aziraphale answered.

Crowley rolled his eyes. He had lost them both now. Why was he friends with these people again? Maybe he should get more involved with artists, musicians or actors in the future. They would certainly not ditch him for some theological discussions.

For the next several minutes, they would discuss bible stuff, as Crowley called it, while he was watching the people around them. They were mostly students trying to lose their last brain cells.

He left his seat for a couple of moments to get some new wine for himself, a cup for Aziraphale, and to loosen some stitches in someone's shoes. In a few days, the good fellows would lose their soles, and would be miserable all day, which would have effects on anyone around them. That would be way more effective than tempting each person for years. With each and each year, there were more humans in the world,[10] it would soon be impossible to corrupt every soul one by one.

 “But I don’t want to keep you from enjoying each other’s company. We can continue this another day,” Jan said as soon as Crowley was seated again. He knew how much Aziraphale and this day meant to Crowley who hadn’t stopped talking about it for what felt like weeks. “You should visit me at the university soon,” he added.

“I most certainly will,” Aziraphale answered with a smile as they shook hands.

“I guess we’ll see each other soon, too, Anthony?” Jan asked Crowley.

Crowley nodded. “Someone has to show Aziraphale where to find you, after all.”

“Obviously. Until then.” With one last smile, he walked towards the door, free of his duty of friendship towards Crowley, and able to spend the evening as he liked.

“Why did you turn up so late?” Crowley hissed as soon as Jan had left the pub.

“What are you talking about? I turned up right on time.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Oh, it’s time they invent clocks that fit in your pocket! Now I’m here, so don’t worry.”

Crowley didn’t worry. Not anymore. The angel was here and the day was going to end well.

Smiling, he started to inform Aziraphale what he had done in the years since their last meeting, which drifted off into a long debate about the events which had happened in this century and they hadn’t been able get to discuss yet.

“What I really hate about this century,” Crowley stated at one point, “is that it was so cold and so wet. I bet half the population of Europe didn't die of the plague, but because there was no food.”

“Don't remind me.” Aziraphale shuddered. “I feel like I haven't had a dry bone since 1312. It's always raining, raining, raining. I swear there was a year where it didn't stop raining from April to November. One of the worst years, as you might guess. Not even the common people had anything to eat, so I had to renounce it voluntarily. That way they had at least a little bit more for themselves.”

Crowley emptied his cup. All the good things were gone now. It had been a hell of a time. He refilled his cup and emptied it again.

Aziraphale noticed and laid a gentle hand on Crowley’s arm to calm him.

“Where are you going next?” he asked to change the topic. “Or will you continue to stay in Prague?”

“Oh, no, I’ve already had enough of this city. I’m thinking about going south. I think I might start in Constantinople. And then I’ll move around the Mediterranean coastline all the way over to Gibraltar, visiting every pub on my way. I’m not going to write a single bloody report for the next ten years.”

Aziraphale raised his brows. “You still have to write reports?”

Crowley looked back in surprise. “Of course, I do. You don’t?”

He freezed. “I don’t. Not exactly…”

“Not exactly?”

“Well, you see…”

“Yes?”

“Officially…”

“But unofficially?”

“I’m going to hand them in later!” This was one of the many reasons almost no one in Heaven liked Aziraphale.

“Your shirts are getting scandalously short,” Aziraphale suddenly noticed. It was almost as if he had grabbed the nearest straw to shift the topic away from himself and his behaviours. His eyes slowly wandered up Crowley's legs. “If you stand, it's easy to see your bottom.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, hidden behind the darkness of his sunglasses. As if Aziraphale ever spared Crowley's backside a thought. “It's fashion, angel. Not that you'd know fashion. It could assault you in a dark alley and you wouldn't notice it.”

“This is not true. I do care for fashion, I just don't see why anyone would want to wear anything but robes. They're classical and timeless.”

“They get dirty easily, especially when you live in a city. Or if it's raining all day and you still have to go out to your fields.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Fashion always moves way too fast. You just get used to something and the next day it's as if only old people are wearing the thing.”

He took a deep sip from his cup. It automatically refilled itself. Aziraphale took another sip.

“Your _bottom,_ Crowley,” he said, his voice much heavier with wine than before, saying every word painfully slow. He blinked and continued in his normal talking speed. “That's as if you're running around naked. It's just not something you should do these days.”

“I just wear fashion, thank you very much,” Crowley answered coldly. Aziraphale didn't have to say it right to his face that he was that disgusted with human bodies. It's not like he had any influence on what people wore these days.

Aziraphale looked embarrassedly from his cup to Crowley. He opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. His eyes wandered around the room, trying to find something that inspired a new topic, but nothing. They landed back on Crowley. If he leaned back in his chair a bit, he was able to see his unique eyes. He didn't lean back. Instead his head fell forward and he looked at the table as if the wooden pattern was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Is there something you’re really going to miss about this century?” Aziraphale asked after a while. He had just started a staring contest with his cup of wine and was about to lose.

Crowley thought for a moment, their last topic not forgotten but shoved into a little dusty corner of his brain where it would be found again later when Crowley lived in a certain cottage and he tried to find an argument against Aziraphale in a heated discussion. He would just blurt out ‘My bottom!’ in that moment and Aziraphale would be so confused that he’d forget all the arguments of his own.

 _So many things had happened this century,_ Crowley thought, _I can't really… oh. I can._

“Illegal dice games in the middle of the night in graveyards.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, everyone started to forbid them by law during this century, didn't they?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right, those were quite fun.”

Crowley looked at the angel. “Huh?”

“Oh, I happen to… stumble across them. Once or twice. I just couldn't say no to the lads.” He sounded embarrassed.

“You searched for them,” Crowley mocked, knowing exactly that kind of voice. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn't! I didn't search, at least. I knew exactly where to find them. Someone told me even though I didn't really want to know!”

“Aziraphale, you’re one of a kind!”

Aziraphale brightened and finally decided that looking at Crowley was much more fun than looking at his cup. “I’ll take this as a compliment.”

“Do you know what's the worst thing about today?” Crowley asked.

“No, tell me, my boy.”

“It's the beginning of a new century. It can't be hardly as exciting as this one.”

“I understand what you mean. It's good that it's over.”

Aziraphale’s hand laid next to Crowley’s. They both smiled, and watched the beginning of the new century in peace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

10 Plague years not counted.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
